


Compatibility

by Fangu



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangu/pseuds/Fangu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fran's shot is average at best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compatibility

Fran's shot is average at best. She can't understand why she's that much poorer than her sisters - they were all born with roughly the same eye sight, balance and strength. She doesn't think her concentration is that much worse either.

They keep giving her new equipment. Her teachers has faith in her - "you just need to grow into it". Yet she notices how they spend less time with her for each passing lesson.

One day they give her one of the Master's bows. A beautiful thing known to aim straight and true. Her sisters can hit any mark with this weapon. It has no obvious flaws, always does the job; a thing to admire, nothing to it to dislike. It is an honor to shoot with this weapon, and every archer wants to get their hands on it. It has a pleasant look with beautiful, well crafted embroideries - you can see its design had been carefully planned out. This weapon has been cared for from the moment the wood was cut from the tree.

Yet Fran can't operate it. It treats her with the same optimism and feel of quality and brilliance it does to every archer, yet she can never hit her mark. She feels a failure - whatever perfect equipment they give her, she can't excel. It has to be her, then. The fault lies purely with her.

One day she is clearing the armory with her Masters. There are a lot of abandoned weapons in there no one ever uses, tucked away for different reasons - some are broken waiting to be taken apart to be reused in more cared for models, others are stored to be used for toys, and some are simply condemned unusable and are lying around waiting for someone to bother taking them outside to discard them.

The bow she is now holding belongs in the first category, possibly the last. It's one of those strange hybrids that looks royal at first sight, but is found uninteresting by most archers at closer look. It is crooked in a slight strange way, like there is no good reason it would become bent like this. But it is, in its own quirky way. The material isn't of high quality, except for the hardness of the rough wooden trunk, and its handle, which is lined with steel and carved in a most eloquent way - like at one time, someone cared for this bow and put much thought and detail into it, but later abandoned it when they realized its other flaws.

She picks it up, measures it. It is quite tall, slightly taller than other bows that would be applied for the same purpose, but it still takes regular arrows, so she picks one up and places it between the fingers on her right hand. The string of the bow is thick and stubborn from lack of recent use, but gives in to her will as she pulls back. Her left hand is firmly placed on the handle, the steel feeling unexpectedly warm in her grip - her index finger touches the fur padding above it, which tickles her finger.

She takes it outside. The bow creaks as she lifts it, like its not quite ready for this. However it still obeys her will, that strange bend in the wooden shape tilting in the most queer way. It is a strong frame though - it is a strange bow, but she believes it can shoot.

Her shoulder aches slightly as she uses all her force to pull the arrow back, and aims. She observes the bow - it doesn't look well placed. She's holding it as she would a regular bow - but this bow is not a regular bow, it is flawed; different. She angles her aim upward, and slightly to the left. The bend somehow looks more rightly placed now. She can't put her finger on it, but it is as if the bow tells her - a little more to the left, do me right now, a little more to the left. So she tilts it, pulls back a bit more - somehow its quirkiness works to her advantage. For half a second it is like the bow stills, as if it's focused, confident - and she fires.

For a split second her heartbeat listens to the vibrations of the string as it searches for its equilibrium. The wood hums content. She already knew the moment she let go this hit isn't off - and the arrow places nicely on the red area, a few hands from the center, making it a decent shot by far.

She lowers the bow. Strikes the hard, splintered wooden frame, its stubbornness. She knows now it can fire, and fire well. There is nothing wrong with this bow. It's the way it has been handled that has been at error. 

Words hover in her mind, singing softly. "You belong with me now."

**Author's Note:**

> You're right, this story isn't really about weaponry.


End file.
